“Right, sorry,” said I. “But it’s only now occurred to me that you’re the Jewess I’m not supposed to shag.”

“I’d have snatched your bollocks off and fed them to the fish if you tried, so probably just as well you remembered.”

“You’re still being piratey, aren’t you?”

“I think I’d be terribly good at it, don’t you? Maybe Lorenzo and I will go pirating.”

“Yes, well, there’s more to pirating than salty talk and not painting the decks with your breakfast every morning. There’s throats to be cut, and some nautical bits to know, too, I’ll wager. Plus, you’re a sodding girl.” This didn’t seem to be the time to mention that Lorenzo would be somewhat impaired in his pirating by being quite dead.

“I can dress as a boy. I’m ever so clever at it. I was talking to two soldiers on the deck while you slept, and neither even suspected me to be a girl. One is even an officer—on his way to see your friend Othello as well. Called Iago. Looks a bit piratey himself. I didn’t catch the other bloke’s name.”

“Iago? Iago is on this ship?”

“He said that’s his name.”

“Did you tell him you were traveling with me? With a companion? Or that I know Othello?”

“He didn’t seem interested. He was rather distracted in lecturing his friend about money and how deceitful women are, which, overhearing, is how I found my way into their conversation. I was obliged to agree with him, given the circumstances. Excused myself when the two decided to have a communal wee over the side, so as not to reveal my manly shortcomings.”

“But you told him nothing of yourself or me.”

“It wasn’t called for.”

“Hand me your rucksack.”

“You don’t need any more gold. There’s nowhere to spend it out here.”

“I need to refashion my disguise,” said I. “If Iago recognizes me, we are finished.”

Fourteen: A World of Sighs

FOURTEEN

A World of Sighs

In Belmont did fair Nerissa curse the English fool when she rose to find her Portia quite unslain, her delicate throat quite unslit, and her musical voice still quite capable of barking commands to her servants, while intermittently whining about the sad path laid before her by her dead and arse-eaten father.

“Fucking fool,” said Nerissa, under her breath, hiding a sour scowl behind her hand, as if a bite of lemon tart had bubbled up from below.

“Oh, Nerissa, I am beside myself with worry,” said Portia. “Because he did not present his suit in time, Bassanio does not try for my hand with the caskets until tomorrow afternoon. Before him, in the morning, the Duke of Aragon tries, and today the Prince of Morocco, and he with as much the gift of chance as any. I dread him.”